


home, your many windows

by neutrophilic



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutrophilic/pseuds/neutrophilic
Summary: All Sabriel wants to do is go home. The fact that she's not exactly sure where home is complicates matters.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quettaser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quettaser/gifts).



> I really enjoyed the excuse to reread these books again and to get to try to map out what I think happened after the first book. I hope you like it!

Sabriel ran, her feet slapping against the cobblestones, the sound of bells ringing in her ears. A moment and she was at the blessedly unbarred door. She pushed it open a crack, only for the door to be ripped from her hands and pulled wide open by an irritated innkeeper, who stood blocking the entrance.

He extended a hand towards her Charter Mark, and Sabriel reciprocated. She had just missed the curfew by moments, a younger her would have protested that this was excessive, explaining that the sky was still orange tinged and no stars could be seen yet, but she had seen a lot more of death and the Dead over the past few months. She didn't begrudge his caution. They fell into the familiar golden light of the Charter for a moment, then back.

"Well, come in then," he said, moving aside.

"I'm terribly sorry," Sabriel replied, "dusk crept up on me."

"You're lucky we even have a room left.”

Sabriel arranged for lodging, a bath, and dinner to be sent up without paying too much attention to what either of them said. Her head felt thick with exhaustion and only the thought of the pleasantly lemon scented sheets at the Sign of the Lemon kept her upright. Sabriel had spent most of the past three months making slow, zig-zagging progress towards Belisaere, sleeping mostly on the ground, with only whatever small company a rented horse could provide. The month before that had been consumed with carving wind flutes to protect the Wall until her hands went numb and then pouring over the meager collection of Charter Magic spell books that could be scrapped together in Ancelstierre looking for marks to help bind Kerrigor until her mind went numb. It should have taken her no longer than three weeks to reach the capital from Abhorsen's House, even with her unfamiliarity with the Old Kingdom, but every time she made it to a new village or town, there was a new pocket of the dead for her to clear out before she could move on.

At Callibe, an old, old woman, her fingers bent around a cane, had recognized her cloak—pinned tight to hide her bells—as Sabriel had been attempting to locate a place to stay and told her of a village that would take her two days hard riding to reach. A necromancer had set himself up as a despot, making Hands of anyone that had objected. Sabriel had set out at once, no planned rest day in Callibe for her, but at least the necromancer was limited to Hands, the more difficult Shadow Hands apparently beyond him. It had taken less than a day to dispatch him.

Every place she stopped, there were more people ready to greet her, ready to shout out news of whatever Dead plagued their area. By the time she had made it all the way to Orchyre, a mob of people formed around her right outside the gates, reaching out of to grab her cloak, to shove food at her, to let her know about a Mordicant.

In the end, there had been two Mordicants and a bevy of Shadow Hands besides, but Sabriel had managed it and had finally, finally made it to Belisaere. To Touchstone, some part of her thought. In her eagerness, she'd underestimated how long it would take her to reach the city from where she'd camped last night and then to find some place to divest herself of her horse.

She was dragged out of her thoughts by the innkeeper's expectant face, and Sabriel fumbled around for her coin purse to complete the transaction. Before she knew it, there was a bed and she had only enough presence of mind to remove her mud encrusted cloak and boots before she was in it, her bells still strapped firmly around her chest.

\----

The next morning, Sabriel awoke feeling rather more human. She felt significantly more capable of overcoming her next obstacle, namely where exactly in Belisaere Touchstone might be. He'd told that was his destination back when he'd left Ancelstierre before her. A message-hawk had met her almost as soon she'd crossed the Wall with a message confirming that he'd already reached it with the help of one of the Clayr's Paperwings and urging her to meet him as soon as she could. She'd almost worn out the Charter Mark he'd inscribed on a thin piece of paper, listening it to it over and over again as she ate her lackluster attempts at dinner, memorizing the way his voice went slightly thicker when he told her to come to Belisaere. His voice was no longer intelligible, all she could get was a low buzz if she pressed her fingers against it, but she'd still played it one last time as she took her bath.

A part of her had hoped that he'd be at the Sign of the Three Lemons, but when she quizzed the maid that brought her bathwater, no man fitting his description had been there recently. The palace, then, maybe, even if it was only charred rocks and overgrown gardens and infested with the dead to boot. Or wherever the reagents had lived.

When she ventured out of her room, ready to try to ask around, she could hear shouting. It took her a moment before she registered that the shouting sounded overjoyed. The cacophony only got louder as she reached the bottom of the stairs and could see other patrons of the inn talking excitedly to each other in groups.

Sabriel looked around and located the maid who'd attended her last night. The maid had a well-made green dress on and her hair was wrapped in intricate braids around her head. Now that Sabriel was paying attention, everyone else was wearing finery, and she felt even more shabby in her still mud stained, despite the best efforts of the inn's laundry, clothes. At least she smelled of lemon instead of sweat and carrion.

"Excuse me, what's today?" Sabriel asked the maid. She hadn't checked her almanac recently, and it was possible that some sort of festival had snuck up on her unawares.

The maid gave her a funny look. "The coronation of the king." She moved past Sabriel and out through the door.

For a second, Sabriel thought about going back to her room and doing, something, anything to improve her appearance. She'd spent enough time in Death recently that her skin was pallid, but if she pinched hard enough, maybe. It was impossible for her to coax her too short to be fashionable for the Old Kingdom hair into the types of braids she saw adorning most of the women surrounding her; she could settle for not tucked under her helm. And if she left the bells behind—

Sabriel took herself firmly in hand. She was the Abhorsen, no longer a schoolgirl, and he knew what she looked like. She should be glad that it'd be easier to find him. All she'd have to do would be to follow the screaming crowds.

She did exactly that and found herself near the edge of an enormous paved courtyard, big enough that the figures on the other side seemed impossibly sized, and so crowded with people that it seemed that all of Belisaere and most of the surrounding towns must be in it or trying to push themselves in. Still, there was a bubble of space around her. Her neighbors seemed to be pretending she wasn't there, and Sabriel pressed her back against the solid stone of an outer building. Maybe news of her hadn't quite saturated the countryside the way it had seemed on her way in.

On the side furthest from her, the side that most of the crowd was directing their attention towards, she could see the Palace Hill from a different angle than she'd seen previously. She could feel the Dead's malevolent presence, and the fact that the sun was rising higher in the sky and the courtyard was ringed with aqueducts didn't completely reassure her.

Suddenly a roar went up through the crowd. Sabriel could see a mass of dancers entering from the main street, but they were far enough away that even though they were on stilts, she couldn't discern more than flashes of color and movement.

She watched the procession make its slow way towards the hill, away from her, and she wondered how exactly she was going to get to Touchstone. The little time she'd allowed herself to think about what would happen, she'd imagined him finding her and running towards her, arms outstretched. There had been nothing besides getting to Belisaere, and, to her dismay, she realized that this plan was very similar to her plan back when she'd tried to save her father, except no there was no Mogget around to tell her she was being foolish.

Suddenly, just as the crowd's screaming reached a crescendo, Sabriel felt the Dead move closer to her. Her hand was under her cloak and against her bandolier of bells before she consciously realized what she was doing. It wasn't all of the Dead, just one, but powerful and close. Inside the aqueduct ring, she would bet. Her neighbors had started to edge even further away from her, she half-noticed as she scanned to the left of her. She drew her hand down the bells assessing.

Ranna, the sleepbringer, was the only choice for a crowd of this size. Nothing else could be safely rung around this many living people, if the bell decided to be troublesome. Her hand stuttered against it. Sabriel hadn't used it since that awful moment with Kerrigor, and her hand shook against its holder, the imagined smell of carrion thick in her nostrils.

There. About forty paces away from her, there was a boarded up building that tilted drunkenly into the courtyard. She could see in the shade, a long dark, shadowly limb slowly extending itself towards a young boy sitting on the shoulders of a man. A Shadow Hand, Sabriel was sure.

She moved quickly towards the building, thirty paces, then twenty. One hand was wrapped firmly around Ranna's handle, the other holding the clapper still.

Sabriel was close enough that she could hear the boy scream as the hand reached him. At once, she rung Ranna with all of her will, the low, pure tone muffled by the noise of the crowd. It was enough to put some of the bystanders to sleep and cause a hush, more importantly it was enough to briefly stop the Shadow Hand.

The sound of the bell rung out again, louder this time, and Sabriel drew her sword, lunging forward. She lopped off the shadowy limb. The strength of her blow or the surprise, Sabriel didn't particularly care, was enough to shock the Shadow Hand back into Death. A moment, and she followed.

The cold water was almost a relief after the heat of too many people pressed too close and a warm cloak on top of all of that. It took her a second or two to locate her quarry. The Shadow Hand was already reaching back into life as she drew Saraneth and bound him.

Its face twisted once more in displeasure before going slack. Wasting no time, she wanted to be back, she didn't want to miss anything, she drew Kibeth and put every ounce of her determination into it. Ringing it one handed wasn't ideal, but Sabriel only took a few quick steps towards the First Gate before bringing herself under control and moving back into life. Five months ago, Sabriel thought, with a mixture of pride and sadness, she would have marched herself to at least the Second Gate if she'd been that careless. But five months ago, she wasn't the Abhorsen and her will hadn't needed to be that strong.

She couldn't feel anything Dead above the baseline level when she returned, so she put away Kibeth and her sword. A twitch of her nose, and the icicle that had started to form was dislodged.

It was silent. Nobody was shouting, not just the people that she'd accidentally put to sleep with the first ring of Ranna, but everybody was quiet. Most of the crowd had turned around and were facing in her direction.

"Abhorsen," a high, thin voice cried out. "Abhorsen. Abhorsen!" More and more of the crowd began to yell as one. Unlike before, when everybody had been chanting their own version of joy and well-wishing that blended into an unintelligible wall of sound, this was clear.

People began to move out of her way, clearing a path towards the palace and Touchstone. As she passed, she saw out of the corner of her eye, people bowing their heads, but she was focused on the indistinct figure at the top of the hill that must be Touchstone.

His shape began to become clear to her as she made her slow progress through the mass of people. First she could tell more clearly that the Touchstone blob was clad in something silvery. Closer and she could tell it was armor, fine silver armor, with an enormous cloak of his own. His limbs resolved, then she could tell he wore nothing on his curls. Then she could begin to see the dear features on his face as she reached the bottom of the hill and stepped away from the people. Distantly, she noted that they were now screaming both "Abhorsen!" and "The King" in equal measure.

She saw his wide grin, and Sabriel could no longer stop herself from running towards him. He also began to walk toward her, his cloak dragging against the ground, dropped by some attendant. She stopped, suddenly awkward, a handsbreadth away, but he didn't. He swept her up in his arms. His arms—it had been months, an eternity since she'd been in them.

"Sabriel," Touchstone breathed into her hair, his mouth hot against her scalp.

His voice was so much richer than she'd remembered, than it sounded in his message. She wanted him to say her name again, or anything else, as long as he said it in exactly that tone.

Someone cleared their throat loudly enough that Sabriel was able to hear it over the roar. She removed her face from his armor encrusted shoulder and saw a Charter Mage, dressed in fine robes, wood ash over her Charter Mark, holding a golden bottle towards her.

"He hasn't been crowned yet," the Charter Mage said. "If you would do the honors."

Sabriel blinked. "But, I don't—"

"All it is is a baptism," the Charter Mage cut her off. "If you would release her, my lord," she directed towards Touchstone.

Slowly, with great reluctance, Touchstone released her, her feet touching the ground again. He stood close enough that his twisted up cloak covered her feet.

The Charter Mage reached out to brush wood ash over Sabriel's forehead. Sabriel reviewed what she remembered about how to perform a baptism. It was simple, something she'd learned early in her magic lessons, but she'd never seen it done. Schoolgirls aren't often present at births.

"There's one modification to the standard chant," the Charter Mage said, "these are the last marks instead." She quickly sketched a series of marks Sabriel had never seen before into the dust at her feet.

The bottle was pressed firmly into her hands, and Sabriel turned to face the crowd. They quieted again. The Charter Mage spoke one final mark, one that Sabriel did know. It would make her voice loud enough to be heard throughout the whole courtyard and possibly beyond it.

She opened her mouth and began the chant of a Charter that described all living things. The familiar feel of the Charter wrapped itself around her, and she forgot everything but the pulsating bottle in her hands, the next sign for her mouth to form, and Touchstone.

She bent down, her voice crying out the new marks clear, dislodging Touchstone's cloak, and touched the bottle to the earth, then to her head. In one fluid movement, Sabriel stood up on her tiptoes and poured the bottle over Touchstone.

A great crown of light formed around his head, almost blinding Sabriel with its intensity.

"I crown you, King Touchstone," Sabriel said, and felt something that she hadn't even noticed was wrong, right itself inside the Charter.

\----

Later, when there was a brief lull in the well-wishing, Touchstone had shouted into her ear, at what passed for a whisper in the din, to tell her to meet him at the cave entrance to the reservoir the next morning the hour after dawn. As much as Sabriel longed to say more to him, to know exactly what had happened all of those months while she struggled her way back, to tell him what she had gone through, no further breaks were forthcoming.

The coronation and the months of unrelentingly hard travel had taken its toll on her, and when Touchstone had noticed her flagging shortly before dusk, he'd arranged for some servant to find her a bed. He'd apparently been staying in some house of a minor noble, and Sabriel's room, despite all of the apologies about how inadequate it was for someone of her stature that the servant had given as they wandered through the seemingly endless corridors, was the nicest room she'd ever been in in her life.

When she woke, she suddenly remembered that most of her worldly belongings, including the Book of the Dead, were back at the Sign of the Three Lemons. She hesitated briefly, thinking about waiting for Touchstone, but decided to go on to get them alone. It hadn't taken long to retrieve them and return them to her new room, but she had to break into yet another jog across the still desolate park in an attempt to be vaguely on time.

Touchstone was waiting for her, leaning against one of the marble pillars around the largest entrance, with a drawn sword and a massive, ornate lantern at his feet. He lit up when he saw her. "Sabriel."

She found herself smiling in response. Even the knowledge of the masses of the Dead surrounding them in all of the shadowy nooks of the destroyed palace couldn't dull her joy much. She drew her own sword.

"Where to?" she asked, suddenly aware that she had no real idea why he'd wanted to meet her here. She wondered if he wanted to try to clear out the area to reclaim it for a new palace as soon as possible.

"While you were gone, I've been working on how to fix the broken Great Charter stones," he said. "I believe I know how to do it, now, with some help from the Clayr's library. I wanted to wait for you to come back for the coronation, but only a King or Queen can mend any of the Charter Stones, let alone these, and I thought... If I had let myself wait any longer, I would lose what little nerve I have." He looked down and bent to pick up the lantern.

"To become king or to fix the stones?" Sabriel asked, curious.

"Both." He laughed a little, bitterly, still not meeting her eyes. "Do you want to go first again or should I?"

"I'd better," she said, "This time I can feel the Dead more clearly."

They made their way down the stairs as before. The light that Touchstone held up illuminated her warped shadow stretched dimly out in front of her. Every time her foot hit the next step, the thought that her father had died here reverberated through her.

Knowing what would happen when she eased herself into the water at the bottom didn't help. She pressed one arm against her stomach and struggled not to retch up her hurried breakfast. The light lowered, and she felt the pressure of Touchstone's hand against her shoulder.

Sabriel uncurled and moved forward enough so he could join her, extending her hand towards him. He took it, and Sabriel slowly stroked her thumb against his knuckles until he could walk. Reluctantly, he relinquished it and took up the lantern once again.

They moved slowly towards the middle in almost complete silence, broken only by the sound of dripping and their breathing. A faint breeze wafted over the water, bringing the tang of Free Magic and of the Dead. Sabriel thought, for one hysterical moment, that Kerrigor had somehow managed to break out from where she'd secured him deep in Abhorsen's House, bound as tightly as she could manage and had stalked her through her whole journey, waiting to ambush her here again.

She shook her head and tried to focus instead on forcing herself closer towards the stones. By the time they got within arm's length of one of them, Sabriel had broken out into a clammy sweat and had to look to be sure that she was still clutching her sword in her completely numb hand. A sharp, thin noise was ringing through her head, and she felt as if her bells were vibrating in their holders.

"Should we cast a diamond of protection?" Sabriel said, after a moment of hesitation.

"No," Touchstone replied, in a low voice, "It shouldn't take too long. Unless the Dead are close?"

Sabriel concentrated, trying to think above the wrongness of the broken stones. "Not too close."

"Here, then," he said, extending the lantern.

Sabriel took it. The handle was warm from his palm. Slowly, she put away her sword and put her hand against her bandolier. Even with the Charter so weak here, they'd still be more useful against most foes than her sword. She didn't intend to let anything or anyone get close enough for her sword to factor in.

He cut into his palm, deep, and immediately pressed his hand against the stone, near the break. Some blood dripped on the water, and Sabriel saw for a moment in the film it made the image of a young woman bound to an intact version of the stone.

She turned away from Touchstone to better guard him. He began to chant out Charter marks, mostly ones that Sabriel had never heard before, though she could make out some that were for renewal and rebirth. His voice, though she could tell he spoke only slightly above a whisper, sounded as if it would fill the whole space. It crowded out the unpleasant hum thrumming through her head, and Sabriel felt on her own tongue the warmth of the Charter.

Suddenly, he was quiet. Sabriel heard his body fall into the water, and the knowledge that something else, something Dead, was in the reservoir with them came over her at the same moment. 

She dropped the lantern and whirled around to see what had happened to him in one movement. It went out with a hiss. In the thin light from the sun that illuminated the reservoir, she could see him bent forward on his knees, his head under the water.

Panicked, Sabriel grabbed him by his curls and dragged him up to get his mouth above the water line. Some far way part of her mind was reminding her that she would have felt it if he'd died, but she found it hard to think over the litany of _Touchstone, Touchstone, Touchstone_ that was repeating itself in her head.

With both hands, she scrabbled to pick him up enough to lean him against her, his arm around her shoulders. Thankfully, he'd sheathed his sword at some point, so she didn't have to contend with that. He groaned, and she redoubled her efforts.

"We have to get out of here," she said, "Immediately. There's something..."

She was half-carrying, half-dragging him away at that point, painfully slowly. One of her hands was free enough that she might be able to pull out Ranna or Mosrael without dislodging Touchstone too badly, but she couldn't think above the rushing in her head of any ways to use them usefully. Ranna, maybe, but if Touchstone slipped completely into unconsciousness, then she didn't think she could muster the strength to get him out.

His weight against her shoulder lightened slightly, and he began to try to walk too. There was a terrible moment where she thought she was about to drop him, but then they coordinated well enough to move somewhat quicker. Still not fast enough.

When they were about fifty paces from the stairs, Sabriel finally saw the Dead. Two Hands. Easy enough, normally.

Touchstone saw them too. He grunted and attempted to stand more upright, or at least, Sabriel surmised that's what happened when he lurched upwards, only to immediately fall back, jarring her hard enough to knock the wind out of her lungs.

With little choice, Sabriel withdrew the arm she'd wrapped around his waist, keeping her other hand firmly in place around the arm he had against her shoulder. She drew Saraneth and its deep, echoing voice rung out. She put every ounce of her panic about Touchstone behind it and all of her will besides.

At the sound, they were hers, but she would bet that other Dead would have been altered too. As quickly as she could manage, she replaced it with Kibeth. It was, at this point, almost second nature to bind the lesser Dead with this pair and send them on their way. The other bells were useful mainly against greater foes.

As soon as she'd managed to return them to Death and direct towards their final rest past the Ninth Gate, she grabbed Touchstone and went towards the stairs again. Kibeth's mischief had, for once, been useful, as Touchstone's knees snapped upwards in a sort of jig, walking him briskly forward.

In a blur, they made it up the stairs, stumbling the whole way, their arms brushing the walls. When the light of the sun hit her face as they emerged from the cave, Sabriel almost sobbed with relief. It wasn't even noon, yet, but it was bright enough that she didn't think anything dead could withstand it.

When her urgency left, so did her strength, and she slid, as gracefully as possible onto the springy turf of the park. Touchstone, still worryingly silent, cooperated and ended up laying on his back. Sabriel propped herself up enough to get a decent look at his face.

He met her gaze, his tongue flicked out to moisten his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth as if to say something. No sound came out. He tried again, looking more frustrated, but to no avail.

In a flash of understanding, Sabriel realized that whatever master Charter Marks he'd used must have thoroughly burned his throat. She done that herself, the first time under the watchful eyes of her father, several times before. She lifted her hand, every muscle protesting, and gently rested her fingers against his Adam's apple. Sabriel spoke a Charter mark of healing, one she'd used on herself whenever she'd had a bad cold coupled with a sore throat.

The muscles in his neck worked once, twice, and then he said, "it told me to try again."

Sabriel frowned at him in confusion.

"The stone. It said, in the voice of my sister, that I should try again once I recovered." His voice was raspy and thin.

Sabriel had to strain to hear him properly. He looked calmer, more at peace with his failure than she maybe would have guessed he'd be. She felt such a rush of joy, of relief that he was alive that her hand trembled against his throat.

"Will you stay until I can fix them?" he asked, looking up at her through his long eyelashes.

"Yes," she said, her doubts about the strength of Kerrigor's prison and if she'd carved the wood flutes at the Wall well enough shoved to the back of her mind for the moment.

He grinned up at her. Sabriel leaned down and pressed her mouth against his. It wasn't the best angle, and she'd taken him by enough surprise that his mouth was still stretched out wide at first. It didn't matter. He was alive and warm against her.

She lifted her head slightly and said, "yes."

His lips met hers again in a rather better kiss this time. The best one yet, some schoolgirlish part of her mind thought. Then she didn't think about anything other than every place that they touched—their mouths, his fingers against her check, hers in his hair, gently massaging it in an apology for yanking at it so harshly earlier—for a while.

She felt incandescently happy, secure in the knowledge that at that moment, there was no other place she was supposed to be, other than with him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Windows" by Prinze George. Thanks to napricot for the beta, all remaining errors are my own.


End file.
